When You Die Of Sorrow

Nothing Happened Today. And If Anything Did, I’d Rather Not Talk About It, Because I Didn’t Understand It.

Even On The Poorest Streets People Could Be Heard Laughing. Some Of These Streets Were Completely Dark, Like Black Holes, And The Laughter That Came From Who Knows Where Was The Only Sign, The Only Beacon That Kept Residents And Strangers From Getting Lost.

But Every Single Damn Thing Matters! Only We Don't Realize. We Just Tell Ourselves That Art Runs On One Track And Life, Our Lives, On Another, And We Don't Realize That's A Lie.

I'd Obviously Never Heard Of The Group, But My Ignorance In Literary Matters Is To Blame For That (every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me).

Literature Is The Product Of A Strange Rain Of Blood, Sweat, Semen, And Tears.